


Bukhansan Braindumps

by LadyMorgaine



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band), 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Gangsters, Geniuses, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 06:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14182989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMorgaine/pseuds/LadyMorgaine
Summary: This is strictly to get stuff out of my head so I can function as a productive member of society and not dream of all my biases. Some of this stuff might cross over with Bukhansan later on somewhere.





	1. Chapter 1

The first time Hansol heard Seungkwan’s voice it was a scathing shriek down the team channel on Overwatch, castigating their party healer for being a shit-for-brains. It was melodious enough, but coming from a guy whose online nickname was _jejuoverlord_ it didn’t exactly fill him with confidence, especially when he couldn’t even curse convincingly and kept on screaming ‘Oh my gosh!’ in English as if it was the worst swearword possible. He snorted and turned his concentration away; Pharah was a tricky character to play when manoeuvring in for a Barrage, and he didn’t want to waste his ultimate like that guy just did.

 

That guy was a bit of a dick, he thought to himself.

 

The first time Hansol  _saw_  Seungkwan was at a dorm volleyball match, and he couldn’t believe his eyes. The guy was… well, he was slim and delicate, especially in the oversized clothes he wore, but he played like an actual demon. He was honestly surprised that he didn’t break a leg or a hand or something given the ferocity with which he spiked the ball over the net. From the look in his eye, the opposing team was lucky he didn’t spike it in their faces. He felt relieved that he wasn’t on that team, thanks to some freakish luck with kai-bai-bo.

 

That guy was really kind of cool, he thought to himself.

 

The first time Hansol touched Seungkwan was when they were at a pre-debut talent showcase that ended in a haunted mansion that they had to go through in pairs. This time his luck had not been as good as the previous time, and he got paired up with the loud, rambunctious diva. They had barely made it to the first obstacle before the boy started screaming and clinging to him, and he had to spit out soft, black hair before he could talk. It smelled of strawberries and tasted of, well, hair, and the boy clung to him like a limpet. He laughed and laughed, and dragged JSeungkwan on with him through scare after scare, sometimes doubling back just to hear the cute shrieks. In the end, he had to carry the other boy out on his back. Somewhere in there, between the headless ghost and the wig of hair that came out to land on them, he had somehow made a new friend.

 

Of course, that all went away when they were actually assigned to a band together.


	2. AU Jungkook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not sure where this one came from. It's as AU as can be.

There is a belief in South Korea that people dream about the moment of one’s conception, called _taemong_. It was fact, at least as far as anyone can remember, that Jeon Ga-in had an unusually vivid dream of a golden tiger trapped in a pit of pitch, and the furious way it clawed itself free and ran off into the sky, trailing pitch as it went. Two days later she found out that she was pregnant with her second child, which turned out to be a boy as well.  Everyone was happy, from little Junghyun to her husband Minju and everyone predicted a strong, strapping boy.

 

They couldn’t have been more wrong.

 

Jungkook decided to come along very early, just past the six month mark, and was a problematic baby from the start. He didn’t cry as he should, he didn’t drink as he should, and spoke fluently at just over a year and a half. At age three he was already correcting his brother when he could be bothered to speak at all. He often spent time staring out at the world for long periods.

 

For Jungkook, life passed as a haze from the first memories he had, bright and jewel-toned and soon gone. There were patterns in the world: in the rain, the glass of skyscrapers, the clouds that scudded by in the air. He could stare at them for hours whilst the world spoke to him and at age four people began to whisper that he might surpass his brother, who was being praised by his teachers for being extremely intelligent. His parents responded by exposing him to as many concepts, languages and sciences as they could.

 

He would answer them whilst looking out the window, as if there was something infinitely magnificent out there. At age eight he had already finished primary schooling and had received government dispensation to be put in an advanced-studies group, which delighted his normal teachers. They could not get him to pay attention in class, and he was difficult in the extreme to get answers from, never mind that they were invariably correct.

 

Jungkook sank deeper and deeper into the world that only he could see. He left algebra and physics behind, forged into higher fields which did not tax him in the slightest, and took absolutely no notice when his parents died in a motor accident on Seoul’s infamous roads. His grandfather, a gentleman of the old school, took over and started driving him on faster and faster, until his days passed in snow and silence, the thudding of a thousand facts impacting his brain so fast he had to develop a new way of speaking just to try and get all his ideas out.

 

Things slipped through the cracks, forgotten as uninteresting and unnecessary. He made it to the age of ten and his CSATs before realising that the thing people said at him every so often wasn’t a pronoun but his actual name. He still got a full score on the test, because he didn’t know how to do anything else but get a full score. His mind was drowning in so much information that he couldn’t force words out his throat. Taking only six months on his undergraduate degree, he attained a Masters in three different subjects by age twelve.

 

He never spoke of what drove him to perform like that.

 

When Junghyun walked into their grandfather’s home on his nineteenth birthday, he found the thirteen-year-old in one of the smallest rooms with a Sharpie in his hand. On the walls was a scribble of mathematics that appeared more like cultist chant, scrawled as if his little brother was half-delirious when he wrote the formulae. In one corner, where the letters devolved into a childlike scrawl of slashes, sat his brother with his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling and unresponsive to any stimulation.

 

Without a second doubt he pulled off his coat – it was the middle of winter – and wrapped the thick fabric around the skeletal little form, until only a dandelion-fluff of hair stuck out. He smelled urine and faeces, pulling a face, as his grandfather’s butler tried to stop him, but he left resolutely with his brother pressed to his chest, walking down to his car and driving straight to the nearest hospital.

 

It had taken thirteen years for the world to crack Jeon Jungkook, reducing him from perhaps the greatest child prodigy and polymath of his age to a comatose victim. He was still alive and his brain was still active, that the scans told them, but besides a bump on the head and extremely low blood-sugar no cause could be speculated at. No one had any hope that he would wake up, and he was taken to a long-term care facility. His brother was broken-hearted. His grandfather committed suicide.

 

It wasn’t until roughly six months later when his brother finally ran the photos of his room past his old college professor that they realised that what looked like a scribble was in fact a solution to three of the six Millennium puzzles, and that he had narrowly completed solving room-temperature fusion before the illiterate series of scratches at the end. His work was published in the scholarly world, and for a while he was a minor celebrity, despite being in a deep coma. His brother, who had become his caretaker, invested the prize money with a bitter taste in his mouth, and continued to visit his brother every day after work. Patents would protect his brother’s work, but could never bring him back.

 

Sometime later, he would even start going out with one of the nurses responsible for Jungkook’s care.

 

The furore died down, and the world finally let the broken thirteen-year-old be.


	3. Gangster!Junhui

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is something that plagued my mind a little whilst I was trying to recharge from finishing my other arc, and I had to get it out to make space.

The smell of Hong Kong rose thick in the air as he traversed the glittering streets on foot, heading towards the Night Market. Even at this hour it would still be crowded, and he was hungry as hell. He hadn’t eaten for the past day, pulling a job for Yang instead, but now the thought of dumplings and beer drove him into the crows that he hated in search of sustenance.

 

The place was thick with tourists and Junhui curled his lip, stepping out of the main avenues to search for a quiet spot beyond. Some few minutes later, finding a spot under an ancient, gnarled tree, he lazily watched a camera crew make their way past, and had just wrapped up his breakfast-lunch-dinner with the last slug of beer when he heard a short, tight scream.

 

He frowned. The mainland societies normally had the place well in hand, bright enough to realise that tourist safety meant a lot of money, and even the odd unaffiliated person wouldn’t act so close to where the police would have to act. In fact, the only criminals out should be thieves or those like him on personal breaks, and the oddity tugged on his curiosity as it didn’t on his heartstrings.

 

He took his time walking in the direction of the scream, and cursed his luck when he turned into an alleyway and saw two 49ers there. They were run-of-the-mill: thick with muscle and likely stupid with it as well, and they had what looked like a tourist spread out on the ground. His pants were already being hauled off, though he fought like a tiger, and the mere sight of it sank him deep down into the volcanic rage that slumbered in him and he so rarely let out. Rape was the one crime he could not commit, the one crime that brought up too many old memories.

 

Junhui was at their side before they could blink, and sank a knife into the right 49er’s spinal column, severing it neatly between C-3 and C-4. The hulk of muscle dropped as if he was suddenly made of bricks, half-crushing the tourist beneath him. Seconds later his friend joined him, though Junhui pushed him off to the side so the tourist didn’t crush entirely. It took him longer to clean his knives than it took him to kick the mountain of flesh off the guy.

 

He didn’t want to look at him. He knew what it felt like to be violated whilst people watched, the hopeless dread that should never turn into broken indifference but so often did. The guy was clearly overwhelmed with shock, crying as if his life depended on it. Very deliberately Junhui turned his back on him. “Pull up your pants,” he got out calmly. “Don’t run. I will escort you back to the main streets.”

 

There was a moment’s silence, then a scramble, and when Junhui looked around again he blinked. Clearly what he had judged to be a teenager was in fact a man, though his features were as beautiful as a woman’s, with perfect skin and expensive clothes. He was still shaking, scrubbing at his eyes and clearly confused. Junhui slowly bent to dig through the two corpses’ pockets, liberated what looked like his wallet and handed it back to him with a solemn air after looking at the ID card.

 

_Korean._

“Can you understand me now?” he asked, switching over to the language he had once learnt from a lover that had been more generous than most. “Don’t run, or you’ll get lost and I’m not going looking for your ass again. What are you even doing here in the back streets?”

 

“I got lost looking at the map on my phone,” the guy muttered. “I took a wrong turn somewhere, and it got more confusing from there on. Are we near the Hyatt?” He paused, looked down at the two cooling corpses at his feet. “Do we… should we go to the police?”

 

Junhui snorted. “For these two? Fat chance, the two dumb fucks deserved this for preying so close to the tourist area. The Hyatt’s this way.”

 

He slowly made his way out, yanking his arm back as the guy reached for it, until finally they emerged across the street from the Hyatt’s entrance.

 

“There you go,” and would have turned on his heel to leave, but the guy snatched at his sleeve again, this time insistently, and he stilled his instinctive reaction to kick him in the throat.

 

“Wait! I’m Jisoo… look, you wouldn’t know me, but my manager will want to talk to you at least, give some kind of reward. Please. _Please_ come on up. I don’t have too much money on me right now, all our spending money is in the safe.”

 

Junhui pressed his eyes shut. “If I do, will you stop holding onto my sleeve? I don’t like to be touched.”

 

Jisoo bit his lip, but nodded, and obediently slouched around to the entrance alongside.

 

Much to Junhui’s surprise, they let him into the hotel, likely on the strength of Jisoo’s Gucci shirt and loafers, and he followed him to the elevators, then to a room on the fiftieth floor. It was thrown open practically before he managed to get the access card inside.

 

Junhui arched his eyebrows. The guy that had opened the door and was even now glaring at him was much more dangerous-looking, broader through the shoulders and muscled, handsome next to Jisoo’s more flowery beauty. He had a glare on him that could strip paint too, but for all that he hauled Jisoo inside into a tight hug that nearly lifted the shorter guy up before he glared at Junhui over his shoulder.

 

“Down, tiger,” Junhui murmured. “He asked me to come up. I don’t think you want to discuss his business in the corridor.”

 

“Seungcheol-hyung, he’s right,” Jisoo agreed. “We need to speak inside. Is Manager here?”

 

Seungcheol didn’t look away from Junhui, eyes narrowing with suspicion. Junhui let him look, by now so inured to his own looks at that didn’t even bother looking in mirrors.

 

Finally, apparently reaching some decision, Seungcheol-hyung stepped in further and allowed Junhui to enter. He wandered past to the tiny sitting area, brows lifting again as he spotted three other men of the same age all curled up on a bed, looking frightened to a one. An older man, surely their manager, took Jisoo out of Seungcheol’s arms to hug him before he started scolding him, and through it all he stood there uncomfortably, one hip perched against the closest wall. He listened at Jisoo’s explanation, saw when the news of what might have happened sunk in, and saw five pairs of eyes turn on him in gratitude. It made him feel uncomfortable, seeing that much naked gratitude in anyone’s eyes.

 

The manager, when he straightened, came to bow deeply in front of him. “You are a lifesaver, sir. I had phoned the police, but he had not been missing long. Please, if there’s any way to recompense you…”

 

“Wen Junhui,” he said shortly. “And I don’t want anything. I just came up here because he asked.”

 

Seungcheol tilted his head. “You don’t want anything?” he asked slowly, looking Junhui up and down slowly, from the angles of his sculpted face to the battered sneakers on his feet. Clearly disbelieving, he straightened.

 

“Hey,” Junhui snarled, voice growing rough as he snarled his way through the satoori. “I told you I don’t want anything. Back off before I make you back off.”

 

Seungcheol-hyung’s eyes flamed with irritation, and for a moment Junhui’s mouth turned dry with anticipation of an imminent fight.

 

“Seungcheol-hyung!” one of the guys on the bed hissed.

 

The manager stepped in the way quickly, breaking their eye contact. “Wen-nim,” he said. “I wouldn’t feel right letting you leave just like this… you’ve done much for us. Jisoo-ya tells me you were very efficient in saving him.” It was delicately phrased to avoid embarrassment on both sides. “We’re going to be in the city for a few more days still for a promotion. Perhaps we could, ah, hire your services as a local guide?”

 

Junhui blinked lazily at him. Taking handouts was one thing, a job was quite another. “What’re you offering per day?”

 

The man didn’t even blink when he named a sum per day that could keep a family of four well fed, never mind a loner with a habit of ignoring meals. “Meals included?” he asked curiously, and nodded as the man agreed.

 

“But you have to stay here tonight!” Jisoo got in from the side, pale and still obviously frightened. “I mean…”

 

Of all the things he could understand, not wanting a source of safety to leave was one of them. Junhui nodded and stepped sideways, pressing past both the manager and Seungcheol-hyung and Jisoo, past the bed with the three men perched on it, to a bucket seat in front of the window. He snagged one of the drinks closer, fixed his attention on the middle distance and prepared to wait out the night. Around him, heard if not seen, the strange tableau broke up in little islands of whispers, and slowly normalcy returned. Everyone but Jisoo and one of the men on the bed left, a creature that was even more delicate-looking than Jisoo if possible.

 

An hour passed with the sound of long showers, and he briefly wished for one, but sipped at the Coke in his hands instead. His attention was only lured away, in fact, when one of the bed lamps snapped off and someone began to sing very quietly. It was a pop song, but the accent would have made fishwives screech, to say nothing of the millions of Chinese on the right side of the Hukou system. Admittedly, the guy had a good voice, which made the accent sound like he was a tone-deaf pig.

 

It was the delicate-looking one from earlier. He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again a stanza later. “You’re saying that wrong,” he pointed out quietly to the stranger still awake. “Shang, not shueng.”

 

The stranger sighed. “Sorry. I’m trying to learn it, but it only does so much good if your accent is the best because the others suck at it.” He blinked at Junhui. “I’m Lee Jihoon. Sorry if I disturbed you. I thought you were asleep with your eyes open. Can you talk me through it?”

 

Bored and twitchy, Junhui held his name out for the tablet, looking at the song in it. “You’re singing it in the original key?” he asked gruffly. At Wen’s doubtful nod, he looked down at the notation again and straightened a little.

 

He had always had a good voice. It was one of the things that made the Nightingale Boy so popular in the brothels in the Krapow district, and when it broke he had merely gotten new reach, not lost the old sweetness. He hummed for a second, then started to sing slowly in the female key, going through the words without strain. The sound was resonant and full even as it climbed up the octave, until Jihoon’s brows were hiked so high they practically disappeared in his banged hair.

 

He didn’t notice when Jisoo rolled over and opened his eyes again, also listening.

 

“Wow,” said Jihoon very quietly when he handed the tablet back. “How are you not already an idol? Or is that why you’re here, are you going to join the Hallyu auditions?”

 

“No,” Junhui said shortly. “I’m a bodyguard, not an idol.” He turned away, focusing his eyes on nothing again, and worked very hard not to fall into old, poisonous memories.

 

The night went surprisingly quickly for all that he had nothing to do. The two guys went to sleep around two, and he quietly left the room around seven o’ clock, just about to make his escape before someone attempted to slam him into the wall. He acted without thinking, body twisting and one hand landing a hard chop on his opponent’s neck. Out of nowhere came a cudgel, connecting hard to his ribs, and his vision threatened to snow under.

 

Adrenaline spiked through him as he completed the twist despite the blow to his ribs. One leg kicked up and out, catching a scruffy chin, and with the other he smashed his original assailant into the opposite wall, knocking him out cold. Seconds later the other followed the first and he fell heavily to brace against the wall, one hand clustered protectively against bruised ribs as he looked at the two bodies. His assailants seemed ordinary foot-soldiers, the type so numerous that they didn’t have a family tattoo.

 

One door down from his night’s post the door busted open and Seungcheol came storming out, looking around wildly. As he took in the pile of muscle he swore and stepped closer. Junhui tried to pull himself up to fight if necessary, but something very strange happened instead. Seungcheol leant back, gave each of the two attackers a good kicking in the ribs, then knelt to rifle through their pockets, stripping them quickly of cash before putting the wallets back.

 

He stepped over the closest one to Junhui, looking him up and down. “Can you walk?” he asked slowly. The Merciful Buddha bless his soul, he didn’t try to support Junhui, or touch him, or even come closer than an arm’s length to him.

 

At Junhui’s nod he left. “I’ll call the police. I think Manager-hyung wants to talk to you. My room.”

 

Junhui followed after him, feeling a little lost. The more he looked at the situation, the more it felt as if something was going on, something larger than just a couple of thugs trying to rape a man too pretty for his own good. He warily entered the room, sank into the chair pointed out and tried very hard not to feel his ribs. Deep inside, like a wriggling worm, a click came, and his breath hitched as one of the floating ribs reattached itself.

 

The manager came to stand in front of him, holding out a Coke and an impromptu ice-pack made of a towel and the entire supply of minibar ice cubes.

 

“Thanks,” he muttered, hissing as he lifted his shirt a little and pressed the ice-pack in beneath. It stung at first, but then a wonderful coolness spread. “I might just be a bystander, but I’m guessing that there’s something more going on here.”

 

The manager sighed. “About four months ago, there was a bomb scare at a concert in Macau. They didn’t get seriously hurt and the concert was cancelled, but afterwards one of the guys’ parents withdrew him, citing parental privilege. Dino was our maknae, the youngest, only sixteen. The attacks didn’t stop there. There were some threatening calls and a case of food poisoning when they got into the catering truck. The police don’t have enough evidence to connect it to any organised activity, but… with this now, something feels off.”

 

Junhui bit his lip as he opened the can with a quick flick. “Police can’t always go where they have to go,” he pointed out. “You need to relook your security protocols, re-vet your staff. Start looking more carefully at your fans.”

 

The manager cleared his throat. “The problem is that none of the guards fit in well enough with the boys not to stand out. We need someone that can blend in on their outings, perhaps pass as the new member, but the chances of getting someone that both knows how to defend _and_ protect others, not to mention sing and dance, is less than zero.”

 

Junhui’s shitty luck reared its head.

 

He said nothing, just rearranged himself against the ice pack, but Jihoon chose that moment to open his mouth, sleep-mussed and curious. “He can sing,” he yawned behind one hand, pointing towards Junhui. “He sung for us last night. And he’s handsome, the fans will be all over him like white on rice.”

 

Junhui’s head snapped sideways and he glared at the elfin blonde.

 

“It’s true,” Jisoo abetted.

 

“I sang because you have the ear of a dying dog,” Junhui snapped. “I’ve never heard anyone murder Mandarin that badly.”

 

Jisoo frowned at him and pointed to a slightly taller guy next to their manager.

 

“Helloooo, I’m Hoshi,” he said happily in Mandarin. “Your father is the kind of rot they scrape of wheat crops.”

 

Junhui stared, mouth falling open. The insult didn’t bother him so much – he had said so much worse about his father – but it was delivered in such an excruciating accent that he couldn’t tell if the guy was speaking Mandarin or some kind of alien language invented by monks high on crystal meth.

 

“…you’re right,” he finally said. “Please, never speak Mandarin again.”

 

Jisoo had the gall to cross to Hoshi’s side, give him a high-five before he slipped into bed with the remaining unfamiliar face, totally unashamed of elbowing open a space for himself and stealing most of the blankets.

 

“Please,” their manager added. “If you make the audition, the pay is much better than for someone on a standard bodyguard contract.”

 

“I’m still struggling to understand why I should care.”

 

“Because you do care, or you wouldn’t have stopped last night to help Jisoo,” Jihoon said from one side. “Maybe you don’t care about him specifically, but you stopped. Out of all the people that heard him scream, not even the police stopped. You did. It’s destiny. _Please_.”

 

Junhui felt punched in the gut, unwilling to look at the naked emotion on Jisoo’s face. None of the other looked as if they’d offer him an out. He glanced at the manager, then Seungcheol, frowning.

 

He sighed, rubbed at his eyes and pinched them shut tightly. “I’m going to need some clothes,” he gave in.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   1. So this is very AU. I don't think the actual Junhui would ever harm anyone. The one in this story has had a hard life. 
> 



End file.
